


Watson Must Never Know

by echoindarkness



Category: Holmes/Watson - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, sherlockkink fill
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, M/M, Masturbation, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-26
Updated: 2010-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoindarkness/pseuds/echoindarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme challenge, Holmes uses Watson's stories from the Strand for bedtime reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson Must Never Know

  
Holmes took the wooden box out from under his bed and sifted through the stack of magazines until he found the edition he was looking for. He settled back onto his narrow bed with the magazine and glanced furtively at his door to reassure himself that it was shut tight. It was, of course, but it never hurt to check. He opened the first two buttons of his shirt, and stretched out comfortably, his slippered feet crossed and twitching slightly. He glanced again at the door again before opening the magazine gingerly, the paper crackling, and began to read.

_"My dear Holmes:  
My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people."_

He held the magazine open with one hand while he fumbled with the ties to his trousers and drew himself out of the confining wool, teasing his half hard erection. Damn Watson and his infuriating scribbling. He could never know about this, that was certain.

_"You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out."_

Holmes bit his lip, his hand moving slowly up and down his member, slow methodical movements that made a slight rasping noise as the palm of his hand brushed along the length. His breath hitched, because these were letters Watson had written to him, and somehow seeing it in print was more intimate than the handwritten letters he kept in his beside table. These were public, widely read, all the more real. He was always torn between reading quickly to get to his favorite parts, or reading slowly to make the experience last. Reading quickly usually won out, as it was damnably distracting to try to slow his reading pace and concentrate on the story while his hands were otherwise occupied. At least the pages were so worn that those particular sections fell open easily and he could go rapidly between them without interrupting his movements.

_"My dear Holmes:  
If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us."_

The memories of those nights on the moor alone were crowding in his mind, of laying awake and watching the lights at Baskerville Hall and knowing Watson was there and out of reach and possibly in danger, and he was alone in a small stone hut with a pile of letters tucked beneath his pillow. His rhythm increased, his fingers working over his straining flesh and his breath coming fast. He remembered the times he had done this, laying on the camp bed staring at the window he knew was Watson's. His left hand held the magazine open flat and his eyes scanned the pages, pupils blown wide.  
_  
"And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor."_

That night on the moor he knew he had been careless, letting Watson and Baskerville see him in the confusion of their chase, but it cut a little to know that Watson had not recognized him. It made this diversion of his more poignant and more necessary. He did not allow himself to think of ways to make Watson see.

_"Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed."_

He wondered if the Doctor wrote these things on purpose just to torment him. _Master_. The man was incorrigible.

"_Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.  
"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.  
For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world.  
"Holmes!" I cried -- "Holmes!""_

This was the part that always, without fail, did him in. He remembered the moment clearly, remembered the sound of Watson's voice crying out his name with a sound of such joy that he was breathless. Remembering always brought a rush of sensation down on him and he lost the ability to breathe for a moment. Sparks came before his eyes and his hips arched up, and he dropped the magazine across his legs so he could grasp the blankets in a fist. And then he was coming and the ejaculate was hot on his hand and there were droplets on the paper and he was breathing quick and fast and clenching his jaw to keep from crying out the name that was on his lips. He managed to bite it back, he always did. Watson could never know.

He allowed himself just a moment to lay still and pretend and remember before sighed and drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He cleaned up the mess as best he could, retying his flies and tossing the soiled piece of cloth under the bed to lay there with its fellows. He could not abide waking up sticky and cold. He closed the copy of The Strand, but left it on the bed next to him because the wave of post-orgasm lethargy hit him abruptly as it always did, and he fell asleep with one hand on the cover.  


  
Watson had come home from his rounds to a seemingly empty flat with his stomach rumbling. Mrs Hudson had gone out, which was unusual, and he thought he should have stopped at his club to have dinner. He did wish Holmes would let him know when would be out, it was unpleasant to come home and find no dinner and no flatmate.

  
He looked around dolefully at the empty sitting room, mulling over his options and then heard what sounded like a strangled cry come from Holmes' room. Watson was instantly on the alert and grasped his cane more tightly as he moved toward the door as quietly as he was able. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and the adrenaline of the chase was on him. With stealth that would have done Holmes proud -had he been there to see it- Watson turned the handle of the door and flung it wide, hoping to surprise the attacker. But there was only Holmes, laying on the narrow bed with his limbs akimbo and a slight flush to his cheeks. His eyes were closed, and Watson thought he was asleep. The room had a strange tangy smell that Watson did not immediately identify until he drew closer, and his own cheeks flushed in sympathy and embarrassment. He should leave now he knew, but the draw to the bed was inexorable. He was at the side of the bed before he could stop himself, staring down at a dazed consulting detective who was holding a rather battered copy of The Strand.  
Watson knew he shouldn't pick it up, but he did it anyway, trying to flip through it and noticing that the pages were stuck together with some sort of-- oh. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or be mortified. He stifled a snort as a compromise, and at the sound Holmes' grey eyes flew open and stared at him in horror.  


"Well Holmes." Watson said in his best Sherlock Holmes voice. "It seems you approve of my sensational stories after all."


End file.
